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“Do you like to cook?” he asks, walking into the condo.

I follow behind him. “Usually. Not after a long day at work, but yeah. I do.”

“I’m making a pasta with a vodka sauce. I’m grilling chicken too, because I need the extra protein.”

“I imagine you eat a lot in season.”

He looks over his shoulder and smiles at me. “I’m not on any TB12 program like Tom Brady was. I eat the carbs. I’ve got to get about four thousand calories a day in.”

I whistle.

He smiles. “I like impressing you.”

“You like impressing anyone,” I tease.

He stares at me, still smiling, but there’s something hidden in the way he looks at me. I can’t quite figure it out.

“Okay, Cass,” he says. “You’re going to be the sous chef tonight.”

“Of course,” I say. “You get to be in charge.”

He smiles at me and I have to look away.

“Do you have an apron anywhere?” I ask.

“An apron?” He looks baffled. “Cass, this is a man’s kitchen.”

“Oh, well. Excuse me,” I tease. “I didn’t know men don’t use aprons.”

He turns to a drawer and pulls out a pink, ruffled apron with hearts all over it. On the front, the words Cold Turkey are embroidered in a cursive font.

“And real men wear aprons,” he says, holding the apron against his front and tying it around his waist.

“Stop!” I shout through my laughter. “You don’t wear that.”

He just holds his arms out and does a twirl.

“Marcus!” I shout, tears are coming down my face. “You do not wear that.”

“The guys got it for me the Christmas after I earned the nickname.”

“So, you get that apron? And I get …”

He turns to the same drawer and pulls out another apron. This one is a full apron, black, with the saying, I Cook as Good as I Look on the front. I think he’s going to hand it over to me, but he steps closer and loops it over my head. His hands graze my shoulders when he lifts my hair to settle the strap around my neck.

I swallow hard, and then hope against hope he didn’t pick up on the way he affects me. Of course, he knows. We proved that on the gala dance floor. Only, there’s no audience here.

“I already chopped everything for the sauce,” he says, turning away from me.

I tie the apron behind my back.

“I’ll grill the chicken,” he says. “You just do as I say and you can be in charge of the sauce.”

“Do as you say?”

“As hard and painful as that will be for you, yes,” he smiles at me, wagging his brows.

“You have to tell me the Cold Turkey story tonight. It’s not fair to wear that apron and not tell me.”